Page 16 of Cursed (Decorah Security 2.0, #14)

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Yes,” Andre clipped out. “That’s a given.”

Morgan kept her gaze on his face. “And another one of the factors that you forgot to mention when you hired me for this job.”

His features closed up. “Sorry. Maybe you should take the sheriff’s advice and leave.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she shot back.

While they’d been talking to Jarvis, she’d felt herself and Andre drawing closer, forming a solid front in the face of the lawman’s hostility. The feeling of connection had snapped again—replaced with mistrust.

She wasn’t sure what to say. Apparently, neither was he. After several seconds of silence, he turned and started back across the lawn.

She thought he was going into the house, but he veered off toward a clump of azalea bushes.

He hadn’t invited her to follow, but she did anyway, curious about where he was headed.

When she got closer, she saw that the large azaleas hid a garden shed, painted green and brown to blend in with the landscape.

He took out a key and unlocked a padlock holding the door closed. She stopped just outside, marveling at the interior. The walls were covered with pegboard on which garden tools were hung with military precision.

There was a place for everything, with everything neatly put away. She shook her head as she compared his system to the jumble inside her own garage. And she shuddered when she thought about what he’d say about the junk piled in her spare room.

“What?” he demanded.

“You’re neat and organized.”

“That’s bad?”

“It’s admirable.”

“It makes life easier.”

As she watched, he got down several sizes of clippers and a pair of gardening gloves, which he set in the bed of a wheelbarrow.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m going to trim some of the bushes.

“Why?”

“Because I try to do some work in the garden every day. That way, nothing gets out of hand.”

Methodical again. Stepping aside, she watched him steer the wheelbarrow toward the edge of the lawn and debated whether to follow.

She doubted she was going to get any more information out of him at the moment—unless it was about plants and flowers. So, she said, “I’ll see you at dinner,” and headed back to the house.

Andre watched Morgan depart, then waited to make certain she wasn’t going to change her mind and come back.

When he was sure he was alone, he wheeled the equipment across the lawn—and under the trees.

He’d made a hedge of wild roses to keep animals and people out of his private garden.

But he knew how to weave his way past the thorns.

Inside were beds where he cultivated plants he’d found in the bayou and brought to a spot near the house.

He always felt a little anxious when he approached this place.

The low-growing plants with their curly red-edged leaves had assumed a frightening importance in his life.

Once when the temperature had dropped below freezing, his entire supply had been wiped out.

He’d had to comb the bayou for more—and he’d been in a panic until he’d found them.

Now Morgan’s bag of cigarette butts had him worried that someone might stumble in here. With a grimace, he squatted down, inspecting his stock. They were doing well, including the new transplants.

He snipped some yellowing foliage off one of the mature specimens, then cut several new green leaves. Lifting them to his face, he drank in the familiar, earthy aroma. An aroma he knew had invaded the pores of his body.

Later he would take them back to the small lab area in his bathroom and cook them up—making sure his supply of the tea he made from them didn’t run out.

For now, he tucked the clippings into a small carry bag. Then he headed back to the manicured area near the house, where his father had planted a bank of forsythia. They grew like weeds, and the only way he could keep them in check was to cut them back every few months.

He worked steadily, selecting canes that could be thinned and clipping off runners that had crept out from the mature plants. Most of those were rooted, and he hated to throw them away. But he’d learned that an orderly garden meant a ruthless gardener.

He kept his focus on the work. And he managed not to think about Sheriff Jarvis. But Morgan kept creeping back into his mind.

He had thought he knew what to expect when he contacted Decorah Security and asked specifically for Morgan Kirkland. He hadn’t known that she wasn’t great at following directions. She made her own decisions, sometimes too impulsively—like tramping off into the bayou.

His heart had stopped when he’d seen her come out from under the trees—and known that she could have gotten into big trouble.

He wasn’t used to dealing with someone like her. In truth, he wasn’t used to dealing with anyone besides Janet on a daily basis.

Probably he was too set in his ways. And unrealistic.

In the face of conflict, his natural tendency had always been to withdraw. Like when the kids at school had teased hm about his weird old man.

At the moment, he was thinking about telling Janet that he wouldn’t be coming down to dinner.

Then he reminded himself that avoiding Morgan would be a mistake—even when she made him uncomfortable.

He needed to get to know her better. And hiding in his room wasn’t the way to do that.

So, he dumped the forsythia canes into the compost pile before methodically putting his tools away and going in to start brewing his special tea before taking a shower and changing his clothing.

Because Morgan had never felt comfortable being waited on, she arrived in the kitchen a little early and asked what she could do to help Janet get the meal ready.

The housekeeper pointed her toward the drawers where the cutlery was kept, and she was setting the table when Andre came into the kitchen.

She’d been listening for him, but somehow, he’d snuck up on her, silent as a cat.

Her hand shook, and she dropped a fork on the table, hearing the clatter above the sound of Janet making her final dinner preparations.

“I’ll wear lumberjack boots next time,” he said, sounding like he was trying for a playful tone.

“No harm done,” she answered in the same tone.

It looked like he’d dressed carefully for dinner, in a crisp dress shirt and dark slacks. And she was glad she’d changed into a simple knit dress and sandals.

Turning away from Andre, she found Janet watching them. Caught staring, the housekeeper quickly whirled back to the stove. But she hadn’t hidden her interest

What was her stake in this? Probably she wanted Andre to solve his problems. Probably she was wondering if Morgan was the right person for the job, and she hadn’t made up her mind yet.

Meanwhile, she made a good buffer between the other two diners.

When they were all seated and had served themselves, they ate in silence, until Janet jumped in with a question the way she had at breakfast.

“So where do you live in Baltimore?”

“Not really Baltimore. Beltsville. It’s actually closer to Washington, DC. I live in one of the new apartments they’ve built in the area.

Changing the subject, she tipped her head toward Andre. “Your turn. Where did you go to school?”

“If you mean kindergarten through high school—in St. Germaine.”

“What about college?”

He shifted in his chair. “I didn’t go beyond high school.”

She struggled to hide her surprise, but it apparently showed on her face.

“I was needed at home. My father was sick, and I had to run the estate.”

“At eighteen?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re obviously very intelligent. You’re interested in a lot of subjects. You should have gone on with your schooling.” Realizing that probably sounded condescending, she closed her mouth before she could stick her foot in any farther.

“You don’t have to go to college to be well read. That’s one of the reasons I have so many books. If a subject draws me, I read about it.”

Morgan nodded.

“You ought to have seen him when he was three,” Janet chimed in.

“He taught himself to read. He’d come to me with a book and point to a word and say— ‘does that say yellow?’ or ‘does that say neighborhood?’ And it would.

He picked up reading with a little help from me.

When he was eight, he sent away for a kit and built a color TV set because his father wouldn’t buy one. ”

A look flashed between Andre and the housekeeper, and Morgan could see that their relationship was strong.

“You helped his mother take care of him?” she asked.

The woman’s features contorted. “His mother left,” she said.

“Janet raised me,” Andre said gently.

“What about your father?”

“He was usually holed up in the library.”

Morgan was about to ask another question when Andre glanced up. As he looked toward the window, the blood drained from his face.

“What?” she asked, wondering what he’d seen.

“I forgot the time,” he said, his deep voice turning hollow.

“It’s cloudy out,” Janet answered. That’s why it’s so dark.”

“Maybe,” he muttered. Shoving back his chair, he bolted from the room. Moments later, she heard the back door slam.

Morgan pushed her chair away from the table and started to follow him. Janet jumped up and grabbed her arm. “Let him go.”

“Where?”

The woman gave her a fierce look, then made an effort to relax her features. “Out,” she said, making it clear that she wasn’t going to answer any more questions about Andre’s strange behavior.

Snatching his plate from the table, she carried it to the counter, covered it with plastic wrap and stuck it in the refrigerator.

Morgan wavered for a minute. “It’s been a long day. I think I’ll go up. Thank you for a delicious dinner.”

“You don’t have to leave—just because he did.”